The Victorious
by Echo Vanity
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry makes a decision that will change the course of the future for the Wizarding World. The world is hungry for a new kind of leader, and Harry will sacrifice everything to ensure his world gets the future it deserves. (It all comes down to the Elder Wand just trust me ok) (...Dark!Harry/Trio. Eventual H/D but no fluffy happy bunnies)
1. Prologue May 2 2001

May 2nd, 2001

_It's dusk and the world is burning down, again. _

_Flakes of ash and still bright sparks fall like snow and you think they probably burn when they touch your skin, but you're not so sure. You think burning is bad, remember melted faces and tortured eyes. You think the opposite of burning is freezing, but you're not sure that's any better. You remember blue-black, ice-rimmed skin, toes and fingers snapping off. Either way, they die. The ash continues to fall, like feathers, like leaves, like snow and it probably burns but you're not sure it hurts. You touch it with your fingertip and it crumbles. You watch it smear on your skin and miss it when it disappears._

_Through the smoky haze, the last drops of a bloody sunset sink below the horizon. You think of suicides and motel rooms. Cream-skinned girls with their veins spilling open on dirty porcelain. Their eyes forever staring at the spiders on the ceiling, their swollen tongues choking on their last regrets, their dirty hair floating in pink stained water. Girls you once adored, never again yours to hold. Dead, dead, dead and they tell you they deserved it. You wonder what the girls' names were. You wonder what it means to adore, anyway. The sun sinks and another day is gone._

_Beside you, the jewel-eyed boy breathes out a plume of blue smoke. In the grey half-light, his silhouette looks haunted. You wonder where his ghosts sleep, in his head or in his belly or in his mind. He is small and he is shrinking, day by day. He is a home for the haunting dead and they are running out of rooms to hide in. He turns to face you and you have to look away. You don't remember if you have eyes capable of meeting his. _

_Staring at the ground, you ask him if this is the end of the world.  
>He says, "Not yet."<em>

_From the corner of your eye you see him smile. It looks like it hurts. You can't remember why, but you think you're glad. The jewel-eyed boy reaches out and grips your hand. His fingers tremble and his nails dig into your palm and you think surely you must be glad._

_Flakes of ash are falling, like snow, and you can almost picture crystal-edged flashes of sweetness from the sky, once upon a time. You open your mouth to catch a falling flake on your tongue, wanting a taste, just a little taste. You think it maybe hurts but you can never remember the difference, anymore._


	2. No Memory, No Blame

May 3, 1998

It is sunrise and Harry has won a war, but he doesn't feel victorious.

He watches the gleam of morning light on marble and tries to feel something other than empty.

The air feels heavy and tastes like burnt magic and rotting despair. He swallows hard, once, twice. He can't get the taste of blood from his throat. It's been hours, it's been years. He wonders when he grew accustomed to the taste. He wonders if he ever will.

A little way behind him, Ron and Hermione wait. A twitch of his fingers, a turn of his head and they will come to stand beside him. He refuses to move. He has asked to do this alone.

In front of him, close enough that his breath stirs the silver hair, an old, misguided man and his shattered final home. Behind him, the living, the dead and a broken world waiting to praise him. Them. In his hand, the Elder Wand, blood-stained, battle scarred, powerful and poisonous. Harry thinks he knows how it feels.

He knows what he _should_ do. Knows what they _expect_ him to do. Knows that they expect him to once again do what they cannot, by placing the most seductively powerful wand in _history_ into the tomb of his dead mentor and seal it safely away. In 70 years or so, they expect him to die again, unchallenged, letting the power of the wand die with him.

Harry thinks of trains and consequences and whether it will be worth it. How can it possibly be worth it?

He thinks of the newly dead, staring at a ceiling that's forgotten how to reflect the sky. Thinks of the all the rows of bodies, soon to be falling to pieces in the ground. Warriors becoming worm food. He thinks of all those dead, empty eyes and the beloved faces they once would've known. Feels the weight of the dead on his shoulders, their eyes on his spine, their thoughts in his head.

Harry thinks of blue eyes twinkling and white robes against his skin. Thinks of mist and perfect silence and the small, fragile, _**hideous**_ remains of a soul that had never known love. Thinks of death, and love, all tangled up in lies.

He wonders where the rest of the dead went when they died. If they got on a train to take that journey he wasn't yet allowed to make. If his train will still be waiting, 70 years down the road.

He thinks of the lives the dead sacrificed, and the death the living sacrificed.  
>It has to be worth it.<p>

He thinks of a world, waiting to be rebuilt. A world needing something, anything, to rally behind, now everything to fight for, and against, has been torn down. He thinks of this new world born into this new day, free from war at last. He wonders how it will survive itself. So hopeful, so fragile. So desperate, so afraid.

He thinks and thinks, and knows what he has to do. For a moment, he feels a flicker of…something. Like the twitching of a snake in his belly. For a moment, he wonders if this is the victory.

When it passes, he feels even hollower than before.

Harry clenches his fist, grits his teeth, summons the last of his courage- and puts the Elder Wand in the pocket of his ragged jeans. He steps back. His fingers seem to tingle, as though already itching to have that power back in their grasp. He draws out his own familiar phoenix and holly wand, repaired just hours before, with Dumbledore's face gazing down upon him. For the first time, it feels alien in his hand.

Hermione and Ron step forward, their presence beside him as reassuring as the light from the slowly rising sun. Their mouths are grim, their gazes determined and Harry briefly wonders how he ever thought he could've made them stay behind, when they would so clearly damn themselves to stay by his side.

He murmurs "On three?" but Hermione darts forward, snatching a twig up from the ground. With a small smile, she transfigures it into a copy of the Elder Wand, and places it between Dumbledore's folded hands.

Joining Harry and Ron again, she nods, "On three."

Together, they repair Dumbledore's tomb, shards flying back together and cracks sealing until the marble gleams as brightly as it did on the day the Phoenix sang.

Together, they turn and walk back toward the castle, where their new world waits to greet them.


	3. May 16, 2001

May 16, 2001

You're dreaming of water.

_It's rushing, tumbling, spinning, away, away from you. Taking with it years of dirt, decades of blood, centuries of regret. It's vanishing down the drain. It's going to the ocean. The air feels like salt and you wonder whether death by water is peaceful, if the sea embraces you and pulls you gently beneath the waves. Or if death by ocean is rough, is tumultuous, is as fierce as the way the waves constantly leap toward the sky. You wonder what it is that hurts more. The sand in your throat, the salt in your skin or the water in your lungs. You wonder if it matters, if it's all the end._

You're dreaming of water.

_It's running, gurgling, spinning, away, away from you. Taking your tears, your apologies, your desperation with it, disappearing down the drain. It's going to the ocean. It's going far away, forever away, and you can't follow. _

_There is a dirty sink with cracked tiles. There is a mirror. There is the transparent reflection of a girl looking upon your misery with a combination of compassion and glee. There is a mirror. A brief reflection of green. Green like the forest is green, green like the Killing Curse is green, green like Slytherin, like everything you uphold and abhor._

_There is a boy, your jewel-eyed boy. Here, you almost know his name. You fear him. You crave him. He is speaking and you can't hear a word above the rushing sound of blood in your ears. _

_You fear him. _

_There are words, screamed, hurled from your throat. There is a crash, the sound of smashing porcelain, the rushing of a burst pipe, the screams of the ghost girl. There are words, torn from your throat. There is light. There is pain. There is pain. There is pain._

You're dreaming of water.

_Pink-tinged, red-tinged, it's all gushing away from you, out of you, taking with it years of hate, decades of despair, centuries of regret. It's vanishing down the drain. We're going to the ocean. _

You're dreaming of water…

You wake to the sound of someone crying, but it isn't you.  
>You don't think it's you.<p>

Here, in this room, in this home that isn't yours, the darkness is so absolute, you can't see your hands as you raise them to your face to touch your eyes. Your fingertips are trembling, but they come away dry. When you close your eyes, the darkness doesn't change. You keep your eyes focussed behind your closed lids, waiting for the lights to appear. You count the colours, willing yourself to sleep.

But someone is crying.

It isn't you.

The noise grates at your ears, pulls at your conscience. Louder than God, here in this room, here in this darkness. Pain, trying so hard to be silent, begging for a response.

You reach out a hand, searching. Hesitating when you encounter the body, the warmth. It is shaking. You think of water. Broken glass. Tears. There was a boy in a bathroom and another boy who saw the weakness but neither boy was you. Not you, not you.

There is no you, anymore.

Here, though, in the darkness, suffocating and absolute, there may once have been a boy. There may have once been a you.

You close the distance, grip the warmth, a bony shoulder covered in damp cotton. Your fingers no longer tremble. When you pull, the body comes easily, melting into your arms as if it belongs there. You run fingers down the spine, count the protruding bones. Tap out forgotten rhythms on the ribs. Catalogue the hip-bones with your palm. This is the place you know. The map of this body is written on your marrow. Its tears would break your heart, if you still had one that beat.

When the body stops shaking and the gasping tears slow, you allow yourself to look, with eyes not made for seeing...

him.

In the slowly softening darkness, he is all angles and shadows, whispers of bones and hollow spaces where dreams should be. In the dark, his eyes glow.

Your jewel-eyed boy, with eyes green like the half-recalled forest, like the Killing Curse, like everything you thought you knew.

Here, in this darkness, you think you almost remember his name.


End file.
